Alexander Pope

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

Find, if you can, in what you cannot change. Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times.

A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.

But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age, and long experience render wise.

A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.

O happiness! our being's end and aim! _x000D_ _x000D_ Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: _x000D_ _x000D_ That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, _x000D_ _x000D_ For which we bear to live, or dare to die.

The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.

True disputants are like true sportsmen: their whole delight is in the pursuit.

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,_x000D_ _x000D_ Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?

Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,_x000D_ _x000D_ And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.

Of all affliction taught a lover yet,_x000D_ _x000D_ 'Tis true the hardest science to forget.

Curse on all laws but those which love has made.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.